


Bubbles

by wolf_on_the_hammock



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Clay's thoughts, Concussions, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Temporary Amnesia, good ash, no beta we die like men, team rifts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-22 01:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22554316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_on_the_hammock/pseuds/wolf_on_the_hammock
Summary: Clay forgets. He tries to remember.
Comments: 27
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay forgets.

“Spenser?”

“Clay—”

“Brother—”

“Goldilocks—”

“Spenser?”

Clay opened his eyes to the deafening silence, broken first by the buzzing in his head then, gently, by the rushing of his heart. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. And that wasn’t a good thing to wake up to. But everything was dark and he felt vulnerable. Soft. Well-rested. It took him a second longer to recognize the dull scent of antiseptics.

The sleep reluctantly released its hold on him and he sat up, running a hand through his hair and pushed aside the cover with a soft grumble of “Fuck.” It wasn’t really soft; it broke the silence. And then the sound of people in the hallway came rushing back in as if suddenly, the single word turned the time on again.

Clay was in a private hospital room. A blue private hospital room. His eyes fell on the cot next to his, then the cot next to that, and the cot after that, until his eyes made out the outline of the five other beds in the room. Suddenly, it was just a blue hospital room. The door opened and a lady wearing hospital gown came in with a saline drip on her rolling stand. She didn’t look at him, climbed into her bed, and promptly fell asleep. The sound of her snoring filled the room. The door opened again, and the rest of the patients streamed back in. A man in white coat came in behind them, ready to close the door, but saw Clay sitting upright with his legs on the side of the bed.

The man asked, “The restroom, Mr. Spenser?”

“No man, I’m good.”

“Alright, here’s your pill. It’ll put you right back to sleep.“ The man came closer, handed him a small white pill and a glass of water.

Clay put it in his mouth then chugged the water back, swallowed. He opened his mouth to let the man see that the pill was gone. The man nodded, satisfied, and left to respond to the man from beyond the door who asked, “Doctor, is he ready to leave tomorrow?”

“Yes,” replied the doctor. “Everything looks fine so far but make sure he comes back tomorrow for another check.”

“Yeah, I will make sure of that. Thank you.”

Drowned by the soft chatters, Clay fell asleep. He dreamed of people. And a dog. Gunfire. Water. Alcohol. The feeling of fire scorching his sorry behind as he jumped. Humming of an aircraft. Plummeting. The parachute whooshing opened above him. Bars. Gasoline. Fast ropes. Radio clatters. _Bravo One, this is Bravo S_ —Screams. Burns. Clinking of the beers. Headaches. Soft sheets. The sun bearing down upon the people and the ice melting on their tongues. Laughter.

A boot kicked his cage. His eyes flew open. An unhappy, weary face peered from outside the wires and jerked his head toward the door. “Gear up.”

“Fuck,” Clay muttered.

“Hope that isn’t gonna be your attitude this mission again,” said Hayes. “We don’t want another fucked-up job.”

Clay glanced at his uniform. Pulled them on. He was Bravo Six. Sniper. A goddamn good sniper and operator. He never missed. Fucking always hit something, they said. Fucking put a bullet through Sonny’s shoulder. Hayes slammed the door shut on his way out. Clay rubbed his eyes, tired, and suddenly didn’t know why he was here. Glanced at the uniform on him. He was Bravo Six. Sniper. Part of the goddamn team that’s right. They called, he answered. Well, Sonny hadn’t called yet. Sonny didn’t want to talk to him. Sonny, on the farthest hammock away from him, sleeping with his funny hat over his face.

Stumbling out of his hammock, Clay grabbed his bottle and took a giant swig. Water dripped down his chin. He wiped them away hastily and screwed the cap back on the bottle. He then lied back down and stared at the ceiling of the loud aircraft. Clay wanted to fall back asleep, but he was worried that when he wakes up later, he would’ve forgotten again. But he fell asleep anyway. Dreamed of a lot of things. Photos. People. Some nice, generic beaches with a bright sun and blue skies. And a talking man whom Clay knew as Brian. But Clay’s head was still a little muddled so he didn’t really remember what Brian said when he woke up a little later, startling out of sleep by the sudden presence he felt near him.

“You alright?” asked the tall blond-haired man towering over him.

Clay squinted at Trent before pulling out his crumpled hat and placing it over his face. “Yea, I’m good.”

“You want me to drag Sonny’s sorry ass over for a talk?”

“Naw man, think I’ll just sleep for now.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, surest shit I ever know.”

“Alright, just checkin’.”

The mission went without a hitch. Behind his back, Sonny said it was all thanks to Clay’s lack of participation. “Thank God pretty boy ain’t putting holes in us this time ‘round,” he jeered, throwing down his cap and climbing into the hammock in his cage after their mission. They all stank. Clay didn’t want to be here and he didn’t really have to be here, but he was afraid that if he were to leave, he would forget things. Trent told Sonny to watch his mouth. When Trent sounded angry, people listened. Clay didn’t want Sonny to get angry at Trent so he tried again to apologize to the Texan still swinging softly in his cage.

“Hey Sonny, look, I—”

“Beers on me boys,” hollered the larger man as he jumped out and slammed the cage door shut. “Let’s hit the bar, boys, what do you say?”

Clay stuck his hands in his pockets uncomfortably. “Yeah, I’m down.”

“Not you, you ain’t invited. Maybe next time, when I feel better. _If_ I feel better.”

Trent excused himself from the invitation, saying he had to meet up with family. Sonny shrugged and went off with the rest of the team. Clay went off with his bag of stinky clothes and headed to the parking log where the familiar car parked hazardously in the back, taking up one-and-a-half space defiantly.

“Hospital, then home,” said the driver as he hopped into the car. “Got some take-out waiting for us. Pizza and chicken.”

“Can we skip the hospital?” Clay replied.

“No,” the man replied, turning slightly to watch him as they pulled out of the parking lot. “The doctor gotta take a look at you again. We’re not taking any chance.”

“Alright,” Clay said. He wasn’t really looking for an argument. He just didn’t want to go but if he had to go, he’d go.

In the driver’s seat, Ash Spenser focused his eyes back on the road. There were a lot of red lights from there to the hospital. A lot of them. And more cars that joined the road, the more red lights there were. Clay didn’t mind it, because it meant Ash would drive a little slower to avoid coming to a screeching halt every other few blocks. It was dark outside and Clay saw himself through the ugly reflection on the rolled-up car window. The radio was on, talking about the weather forecast for tomorrow before falling into classical music. Ash hated that kind of music, but Clay liked them. No words. It was nice. It helped him sleep. But he rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter, eyes on the road like his father.

They got off the car at the hospital and met with the doctor. The doctor sat Clay in a room, asked him a few questions, looked troubled a few times, nodded, made some marks on his papers, and handed Clay a container of those small white pills. Ash took them like a responsible parent and reassured the doctor that Clay would eat one every day. Then they went home, and Clay was more than just a little tired by then.

“Maybe we should’ve spent it at the hospital,” Ash said. “Fucking concussions and shit. Don’t even know what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong.”

“They said they couldn’t find anything wrong. There’s a big difference there, son.”

Clay didn’t like it when Ash called him son but he was too weary to correct the man. Let the man have his fun. Clay needed Ash there to remind him so he wouldn’t forget. If being called son would make Ash stay, Clay was more than happy. Besides, their relationship was on the mend. Or Clay hoped it was. He didn’t have enough energy to think about the alternatives.

The pizza was still warm when they got back. Clay devoured them, chugged down his pill, and went to sleep. Ash turned off the lights for him, shut the door quietly, and left. The night was an eerily quiet place and Clay almost wanted to call Stella before he remembered that there was no more Stella. There was just him, some bad feelings, and a ticking clock by the nightstand that went tic, tic, tic but never tock. Clay rolled over to the side and burrowed himself in the warmth of the heavy blankets. The doctor said he should try to keep himself warm because the feeling of warmth was usually associated with safety and it might help Clay with his memories. The doctor also said that once Clay had forgotten his name, he might start forgetting other things too. But right now, Clay could still remember almost everything important and everything else he couldn’t really remember was probably not as important.

Clay fucked up big a week later when he forgot that he was Bravo Six and not Foxtrot Seven. It was mostly Sonny’s fault. When Clay had dragged himself into the team room, Sonny had said, “Hey ho, wrong room buddy. Dirty Foxtrot team’s a floor down.”

Clay had missed the alarm that morning. His head hadn’t been working well, so he’d just nodded and headed down the room. Sonny had looked a little confused, but Clay was even more confused to notice anything. The Foxtrot leader had ushered him back up to Bravo after asking him what he was doing in Foxtrot’s team room. Well, Clay would be lying if he said his face hadn’t been a burning red. Sonny had kinda laughed but it’d sounded sort of weird.

Clay sat down in his hammock, stared at the open door, and pushed it closed. With his arms crossed, Sonny ambled over, chewing a toothpick. The man asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Huh?” Clay looked up, opening the cage door with his boot lazily. “What you want, Sonny?”

“Oh ho, you ain’t the one shot. Calm that tone.”

Clay rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, man.”

“Listen, how ‘bout we grab a drink or somethin’ tonight?” Sonny asked hesitantly as he leaned against Clay’s cage. “Talk it over. I ain’t feeling good getting shot but you ain’t looking so hot either. Also, Trent’s been on my ass lately.”

“I, uh.” Clay cleared his throat. “Got a thing tonight though. How ‘bout tomorrow?”

“Sure. I’ll see you at 8 then. Old place.”

“...Where’s that?”

Sonny eyed him. “The pub down the corner road. We ain’t been to no other pubs.”

“Right.” Clay nodded, sat back, and set his hammock swinging gently again.

He was surprised that Sonny would offer the branch of peace first but Trent must’ve had played a big part in this. Clay smiled slightly. He’d have to thank Trent later because Clay didn’t think he’d ever be able to get out of this stinking situation with Sonny and the rest of Bravo. Good that he was clearing it up. The sooner he could, the quicker he could get back on his feet.

Unfortunately, before Clay could meet with Sonny at the pub, they got spun up. Hayes and Ray were still a little hostile toward him, but Sonny was edging away from it and even telling the team leader and 2IC to cut back their bites. Clay understood Hayes’s anger; that man didn’t like losing things and certainly not losing his man from friendly fire. Navy Seals shouldn’t get hurt from friendlies. Clay agreed; he’d rather die like a fucking hero in some blazing, glorified firefight than from some stupidity like getting shot by his own teammates. Hayes ordered them to rest and be prepared for action as soon as they landed. It’d be a hot infil, most likely a hot exfil too, seeing that they were here for a hostage and not sightseeing.

Clay was more than happy to catch some shut eyes but to make sure he didn’t wake up forgetting his position, Clay wrote his name on a piece of paper and crumpled it in his hands. He hoped that if his forgetful dumbass woke up and forgot who he was, he’d at least have the mind to read the paper curled in his palm and remember. Ash had found that Clay usually needed no more than a prompter, which was good, because Clay didn’t have time for a biography that Ash had joked he’d write if Clay were to deteriorate. Clay hoped if he were to completely forget himself, it’d be after he’d became the Master Chief so at least Ash had something good and worthwhile to write about.

Hayes woke the team up three hours later and they parachuted out. Infil, exfil. Clay was good at this but every time it was still a daunting task. Nobody expected anything otherwise. There were no routines in this thing. Routines didn’t mean safety, it meant traps, which was exactly what Bravo walked into. But to be perfectly correct, Hayes had sensed it before they walked into it, but they were already on the edge of the trap that the trap simply moved to accommodate its prey. Clay didn’t like it. Nobody did, except for the masked men rushing out at them firing like it was a messed-up Fourth of fucking July. Bravo got separated as they rushed for cover. Not too separated, they could still see each other behind the steel plates of the busted-up cars, but far enough that running out from one to another meant returning home in a casket with a clean, pressed flag draped over its smooth wooden exterior.

Sonny chucked a grenade over, then a flash grenade, then a smoke one, and they rushed for exfil. It would’ve been a perfect getaway if it weren’t for their rescued hostage dragging behind and the enemy having enough time to chuck one of their own grenades over. Clay did yell “Grenade!” before he dived for cover, but it didn’t really help him because he was covering the back. All he could do was to throw himself at their hostage, covered the terrified man with himself, and prayed that none of them would die today.

Several hours later, Clay was in the hospital nursing another fucking concussion, a few burns and lacerations, and a cup of water. Sonny finished his own checks and came over, plopped down. “That was some bat shit today.”

Clay agreed. “Well, lucky we’re all alive.” His head was pounding. “Hey, let’s move that bar date to some other time. I think I’ll just go home and crash tonight.”

“Yeah, you ain’t looking so pretty.”

“You ain’t ever pretty, Sonny.”

Ash drove him home and bought him some stuff to eat because that man couldn’t cook for his life. Then he watched as Clay took his pill and asked, “Heard you got another concussion. What did the doc say?”

“Said it was a concussion.” Clay downed the water. “Might get some headaches. Nothing big.”

“Well, if you wake up and forget shit again, remember I’m not the enemy. I’ll just be downstairs.”

“There’s a spare bedroom if you wanna crash.”

“Yeah, no, I got work to do.”

“What? Another book?”

“Yeah, your biography.” Ash scoffed mockingly. “No, I got a different job. Decent fucking job, 9 to 5 white collar. Gives people the urge to die.”

The weird thing was that sometimes when Clay woke up and forgot his name and everything, he could still remember, faintly, the feelings he harbored toward the people he knew. And the weirder thing was that he thought he’d hated his father, but he found that there wasn’t really hate when he looked at the man, there was just a sort of pleasant acceptance. Clay kinda liked it and he knew that Ash did too. It’d been a while since they’d been anything resembling father and son. Maybe it was because Ash realized that Clay might be his only legacy and was trying to save it. Whatever it was, Clay was glad because when he woke up the next morning, he didn’t remember anything.

The man was sitting outside in the living room and looked up from some papers he was shuffling. “Your name’s Clay Spenser and you better sit down and eat before the coffee gets cold because I’m not making you another one.”

Clay smiled a little. “How’s the progress on my biography?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay remembers, sort of forgets, sort of remembers, and forgets.

When Clay had put a bullet through Sonny’s shoulder, it’d been a miscalculation on his part. The hostile was creeping up from behind Sonny and Clay had a clear shot from where he laid on the high ground. It would’ve been a simple headshot and the man would topple backward, dead. The plan was simple but the world just often didn’t work that way. Clay was made before he could take the shot. He heard the clinks of the grenade as it bounced and rolled toward him, and he had to make a decision. Snipe the hostile that Sonny was still unaware of, warn Sonny of the danger, or get himself out of this blasting zone. It was a 'choose one out of three' question that Clay turned into a 'choose two out of three In his haste, he fired without waiting and the bullet did kill the hostile but it also shot down Sonny. And when Clay, through his scope, saw Sonny collapsing, his mind froze and lost him a brief second. Clay didn’t get out of the explosion unscathed. Fucking concussion. Must’ve hit his head harder than he would’ve liked.

The doctor said the periodic amnesia would go away on its own—and it _was_ going away, little by little until it slammed back whatever progress it’d made. Clay wanted to tell Hayes but he was afraid to be kicked out. The man still held a grudge. So did Ray. Brock was more or less neutral and Cerb didn’t really care. Sonny was still slowly dealing with it and Trent had never gone against Clay. Clay chalked that up to Trent’s being a medic; that man probably knew more about how to deal with people than all the rest of Bravo combined.

Clay did try to explain his failure but Hayes had shut him down. “You took a damn risk and you failed. There’s no other ‘if’s here, Spenser. You failed, and that’s it. You nearly killed one of your own teammates because you wanted to play hero.”

“Sonny might’ve died if I hadn’t taken the shot.”

“Ray had the hostile on scope.”

“Then why didn’t he shoot?”

“Because,” Hayes said, exhaling sharply, “Sonny was blocking the hostile. But as soon as Sonny moved, Ray was ready. And then you came in. You think you were the only one on the field? Don’t try to play hero, Spenser. It won’t get you anywhere.”

So Clay didn’t bother explaining anymore. He just followed the orders—gear up, wheels up, take position, infil, take the left, exfil—and hoped that after a few missions, Hayes and Ray would forgive him. Hell, Sonny already did. It wasn’t as if they were the ones shot, but it seemed to Clay that Hayes didn’t really care—which was righteously so, because they shouldn’t care about their personal problems during missions. Especially not when bullets were wheezing all around them and the dust the grenades kicked up was blowing into their faces.

Clay got a little distracted and got tapped on the back. He went down hard, crashing chest-first onto the ground. His helmet bounced on the ground and a spike of pain shot up his head. Hands were quick to haul him up, dragged him across the sand, and sat him against the sandy plate of their getaway car. They didn’t waste any time. Clay was a little confused, still trying to wrap his head around the blurred motion. The pain on the side of his head was creating gratuitous hindrances. Someone held his head up and shook him. Hostiles, was Clay’s immediate thought, because it hurt and because he didn’t remember in that split second of waking up. He surged up, trying to repel the strong arms holding him down.

“Spenser!” someone shouted as they fought him. “Calm down!”

Spenser. He fought harder because it didn’t really register. All he knew was that he was in trouble because it hurt and he wasn’t feeling really good. It wasn’t warm. It lacked the feeling of safety. Hard metal dug into his back. His encased hands were sweaty and he could feel his hair sticking to his forehead.

“Clay, buddy,” said another man, wrestling his arm down. “Hey, Pretty Boy, if you give me a black eye, I’ll seriously knock your ass down no hard feelings.”

Clay.

Clay Spenser.

Pretty Boy.

“Fuck you,” Clay shot back and let go heavily. They lowered him to the floor of the moving jeep. A bullet ricocheted on the armor. Hayes and Brock shot back, occasionally sparing a glance at Clay still on the floor. Trent let go of his grip on Clay’s arms and Sonny moved back to give the medic space.

“You with us now?” Hayes shouted over the roars of the engine and the hail of bullets.

“Yeah,” he croaked back, unstrapping his helmet with Trent’s help.

“Hit your head pretty badly,” Trent said. “Not too bad, but should get it checked.”

Sonny roughly removed Clay’s armor and examined the bullets embedded in the back. “Thank fuck. Bullets didn’t go through. This bad boy caught them both.”

“Spenser alright?” Ray asked from the driver’s seat. They ran over some bad patch and the whole vehicle went up half a meter before it crashed down.

“Yeah, he ain’t dying,” Sonny replied as he steadied himself.

“Good. Sonny, I need you at shotgun to clear a path,” Ray called back. “Clay, see if you can take out the machine gun. We aren’t getting anywhere fast with that thing spitting in our faces.”

“On it.”

In retrospect, that would’ve been a really good time for Clay to tell them that he _might_ have some problem. In retrospect, that’d been the only time Clay had to tell them before he forgot. They got on the craft, exfil-ed, and each went their own separate ways after getting checked. Clay got a nice bruise on his back and the doctor said they couldn’t find anything wrong besides a mild concussion. Ash took him home again and complained about his job the whole way back. Clay didn’t mind. The only thing he minded was how much of a closed-call today had been.

He hated it, but he set it aside and went to sleep. Clay dreamed of clouds this time. A lot of clouds. Clouds of shifting shapes. Gray mottles. Ringing voices. Camouflage. Blotched colors darted in and out of his vision and he couldn’t make out any of them. The smell of sand and sweat. Water running down his face. Pain ebbing in his back. A lot of rustling, yelling, voices that didn’t make sense, and colors that didn’t make shapes.

Clay opened his eyes to the peaceful silence. The sound of running water in pipes eased into the background. Birds chirping. The ceiling he faced was white and the bed he laid in was soft and warm. Gentle light crept into the room through the cracks in the blinds and edged hesitantly onto his bed. He didn’t know where he was but the warm air was calming.

He climbed out of his bed, put on the pair of socks laid strewn on the ground, and took the jacket on the back of the chair. They all fit him as if he’d been the one who’d laid them out. He didn’t remember, didn’t know. The door opened outward with a push and the empty, stilled living room welcomed him. Dust flickered in the air under whatever light that had forced their way in from the windows without blinds.

A sudden horror grew and he rushed to the door. Grabbed the cold metal handle, twisted it down, tried to pull the heavy wooden door open—and it opened quietly, gently. The morning street greeted him in a wave of fresh air. A man walking back glanced at him, waved, and went on his merry way. He softly shut the door.

Then something shrill rang on the kitchen table. A phone. It buzzed across the marble countertop, turning in funny little circles and threatening to shudder off the table. He inched forward and grabbed it slowly. He didn’t know which way to swipe but he must’ve done something wrong because the call connected.

He took a quick breath. “Hello…?”

“Mornin’ Pretty Boy. Fancy a breakfast in bar?”

“...Who’s this?”

“Whoa, how much did you drink yesterday? This is Sonny the honey. Anyway, we’re down at the restaurant for some nice team breakfast. It’s just a few doors from the corner pub. You can’t miss it.” The call ended immediately afterward, leaving him to stare blankly at the black screen. His face gazed back soullessly.

Whoever the caller was, he seemed to know him. He didn’t know what else to do but to find the caller because he didn’t know anything. So he grabbed the phone and left the house—and that was probably the worst decision he would make that day because two blocks and a few turns later, he was lost.

Hands grabbed him from the alley behind. A dark bag dragged him back, almost choking him. Something hit him in the back of his head and what was dark became pitch black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ash realizes.

Ash was fucked but he wasn’t going to admit it. They all knew he was fucked, every single damn one of them in the office watching him. Scattered paper littered the floor around him in an act of defiance, a black clip laid beside his shoes with a thin film of dust over it. One of its hands was missing from the impact. Ash grabbed and loosened his gray tie, glowering at the man still standing in front of him. At an unimpressive height that was two inches shorter than Ash, the manager’s anger was equally unimpressive.

“I quit,” Ash said. “This shithole of a newspaper won’t last long anyway.”

“What did you say, you little—”

“No need for that. I quit already.” Ash chugged down his badge on the floor and left. “Fuck this.”

Ash enjoyed journalism but that was no journalism. If he were to stay in that office for one more day, he’d die and his death would still be a much more interesting topic of coverage than any of the editorials he’d done. Fucking five hours. Five hours to write some ten pages of shitty coverage of Florida iguanas. What was he going to say? How was he supposed to expand ‘four feet five dinosaurs falling from trees because they are cold-blooded’ into ten pages of shit? Was he supposed to go from the extinction of dinosaurs?

Ash called Clay because Ash needed someone to talk to. Besides, Clay seemed to be getting worse and Ash didn’t want to walk into the house later and be stabbed to death. Half the times Ash didn’t even know what Clay thought of him. Well, Bravo hated him, so there was that. Good for them because Ash hated Bravo too, all because of Clay. Clay used to hate Ash, and so Bravo felt that they had an obligation to hate Ash as well. However, now that Clay stopped hating him as much, Bravo didn’t seem to have changed at all. It wasn’t as if Ash had done them any personal wrongs. A bunch of dumbass, just like the doctors who still couldn’t find what was wrong with Clay physically.

Clay didn’t pick up so Ash presumed that he’d headed off to base already, or was still asleep. It wasn’t the last one, because Clay’s bedroom was empty and his coat and socks were gone. Maybe they went on a mission, Ash reasoned as he plopped himself down on the sofa and checked his phone for any missing messages from Clay. Whatever. He’d just drop by the base in the evening to pick the kid up. Hopefully, Clay won’t get hit in the head again. Concussions weren’t funny. Ash scooped up the remote, turned on the TV, and settled down to watch the news, his resignation from his job already far behind him.

It was a miracle that Ash managed to drag himself through the slow day—and it wasn’t even a day yet. It was barely high noon. Ash almost wished to go back to the shitty editorial so he could at least do something before he died of boredom and the lack of calamity. But before he could, the doorbell rang, intruding the voices on the television he wasn’t watching. Ash scowled, annoyed, and went up to open the door. He immediately wished he hadn’t, but it was too late. Both sides saw each other’s face and neither were pleased to see the other on the other side of the door.

“Ash.”

“Jason Hayes.”

“Master Chief Hayes,” the arrogant prick corrected him. “Well, this explains a lot of things. Where’s Clay? What did you do to him?”

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Jason Hayes.” Ash was about to shut the door when a foot kicked it open and the annoying Texan appeared, a toothpick dangling in his mouth.

“Why are you here?” The Texan dared to ask. Bold of him, considering that it wasn’t _Ash_ who had a foot in the door to keep it from shutting in his face.

“I don’t have to explain anything to you,” Ash scoffed.

“Fine,” Hayes intervened. “Just tell us where Clay is and we’ll leave.”

“How would I know?” For all Ash knew, Clay was at the base. Well, he wouldn’t be surprised if Clay ran away from Bravo because of how dysfunctional they were. A bunch of wannabes, all mushy and touchy-feely. “Left before I came back. Probably at base.”

Jason Hayes and what’s-his-face exchanged a glance. “You sure?”

“You questioning me?”

“No, we just want to know where Clay is,” Hayes said before the Texan could take another threatening step forward. “We scheduled to meet up this morning for breakfast but he never showed up. It’s been almost four hours.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know? He didn’t tell me anything.”

Ash wasn’t going to admit it, but he was starting to grow just a little concerned. Clay always needed some prompts lately upon waking up, or he wouldn’t remember his name. What if that kid ran out believing he was Godzilla or something? Yeah, maybe not Godzilla, seeing that Clay was a suspicious, paranoid shit when he was by himself. That kid probably would think that he was in some sort of escape room puzzle—what’s the name of that other amnesia dumbass? Jason Bourne, right. Probably gonna go on some rampage of ‘self-discovery,’ thinking everyone was out to get him.

“You live here or he lives here?” asked Hayes.

“What’s that gotta do with anything?”

Hayes just frowned at him and the Texan looked ready to unleash his inner beast on Ash. “Well, if Clay comes back, give us a call.” The master chief then gave him a card with his number on it.

“Clay’s _missing_ missing?” Ash inquired.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” the Texan mocked.

“Yes,” Hayes replied. “We’ve tried calling but he isn’t picking up. We’re gonna go check out some places he frequents, see if we can find him. But call us if you see him or know where he is.”

“Well, you might want to expand your search just in case,” Ash suggested with a shrug. Nobody knew what Clay without memory would do. Hopefully, Clay was just out day-drinking and shit.

Hayes gave him a curt nod and left. Ash was more than happy to shut the door but it lacked the satisfaction of shutting it in their faces. Oh well. Maybe another day. Ash grabbed his phone from the coffee table and tried Clay again. Straight to voicemail.

Brilliant.

Looked like Ash’s day was going to be even more ruined. Grumbling softly about Clay’s shitty problem, Ash grabbed his coat and left the house to find his son.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay meets his attackers. Or, well, his 'attackers'.

He woke to the voices of people. The voices of people arguing. The voices of three people deciding where to dump the body. The voices of the trio deciding where to dump _his_ body. He wondered who they were. Wondered if he knew them as much as they knew him. The black bag that had attacked him was still over his head. The rocking of the metal beneath his body was familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. He was in a car. The shuddering of the car felt as if he was about to be chugged overboard and it wouldn’t be by the two men and women discussing his fate.

“Why the fuck did you hit ‘im over the head?” screeched one of the men to his left. “He looks dead. Oh god, he looks so dead. What we gonna do if he dies? You think the police will trace it to us if we dump ‘im at the river?”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, Harold, calm down,” the woman replied. “He’s not dead. He looks dead only ‘cuz I knocked him out.”

“Well, that ain’t the problem here, Miss Rema. He ain’t the one we supposed to grab,” the man, Harold, grumbled. “All this and he ain’t even got nothing worth on ‘him.”

“Got a phone though,” said the third member miserably. “Got a password though. He might tell us when he wakes though. He might not wake though.”

“As I said, he’s asleep, not dead. Here, he’ll wake when I give him a kick.” The woman moved and he could almost _feel_ her raised foot.

Not wanting to be kicked, he groaned out loud to announce his state of consciousness. Miss Rema set her foot loudly down. “See?”

“You haven’t kicked him though.”

“Be quiet, Marball. Go remove that stinky black bag. We should at least talk with him before we kill him.”

The black bag was tugged at by Marball. It took the man a few tries to get it off his head. Bright light stabbed his eyes, eliciting a sharp twist of his head to avert the sun. He took the chance to take in the truck whose opened back he was in. Miss Rema stood just slightly away from the sun so that he had to look toward the sun to face her when she spoke.

“So.” She cleared her throat. “You’re awake.”

“It would appear so,” he agreed.

She looked affronted at his placidity. “And you must be Clay Spenser.”

Clay Spenser? Something in his foggy memory stirred. It sounded…right, yet it felt as if he was more ‘Clay’ or ‘Spenser’ than he was ‘Clay Spenser’. Clay Spenser nodded anyway because it was so far the only thing that sounded and felt marginally right. To his left, Harold squinted at him disapprovingly. To his right, Marball, a rather large man, peered at him sadly.

“I’ll just call you Clay because it’s three against one here so you don’t have any say,” Miss Rema said.

Clay nodded again. “How do you know me?”

“He asked a question,” Harold cried. “He asked a question! Miss Rema, if he keeps asking, he’s gonna know everything and then he’ll tell the police and we’ll all die!”

“We’re supposed to ask the questions though.”

Clay nodded and said, “Okay.”

So they asked some questions but Marball kept interrupting and asking for his phone password. Clay offered to try a few because he didn’t know either. He managed to lock himself out and earned him Marball’s muttered comment of how “five minutes is too long though.” It turned out that it really wasn’t Clay Spenser they were after, which turned out to be both a blessing and a curse.

“We were told to follow the man who lives at your address and kidnap him,” Miss Rema said. “Didn’t know you live with him but I guess we’re too naive.”

“Who’s ‘him’?”

“A guy named Ash Spenser.”

Ash Spenser? Was that his…brother? Father? Cousin? Uncle? The name came with a sense of confusion. Not confusion at the name, but rather the person that stood behind it. A sense of uncertainty, but not fear or anger. Perhaps a little anger. It felt as if he had little expectation of the man and that little expectation of his was surpassed. ‘Strange’ was simultaneously the best and least capable word to describe their relationship.

“Who’s he?”

“Your dad,” Harold beat Miss Rema to the punch. “What, you two live together and you don’t even know who he is?”

“You know where I live?” Clay asked.

“Do you not know where you live?”

“Well, I did. I forgot. Can you take me home?”

“We aren’t Uber though.”

Miss Rema stared at Clay. “What do you think we are?”

Clay eyed them, eyed their ragged outfits, the patchworks that adorned them, the dirty shoes and dirty faces, smelled the stench of questionable sanitation, and sighed. “Professional killers.”

“You damn right bet we are!” Harold cried. “We’re professional killers! We’ll slit your throat without blinking and we’ll dump your body at the river. The crows will feast on your corpse until—”

“Dead bodies are against those environment rules though,” Marball said.

“Well, ain’t nobody care.”

“ _Harold, Marball_ , we’re gonna bring Clay here to see our boss first. He can decide on what’s next while we go kidnap the right Ash Spenser.” Miss Rema leaned down. “Here, take the pill. It’ll put you to sleep. Don’t blame us, the boss requires it.”

Clay took the pill obediently, feeling the effects after a few long seconds of rapid blinking. The last thing he saw was their faces peering at him as his eye closed. He dreamed and, in retrospection, he wished he’d dreamed earlier. In his dream, there was a man with a black beard, a toothpick in his mouth, and an ugly hat clutched in his rough hands. It wasn’t really an ugly hat, but the word ‘ugly’ felt so right that there couldn’t possibly be any other words for it. The man swung gently in a hammock and so did Clay. They both felt the luring motion and they swung softly in unison as if the time and space didn’t matter at all. The man was clad in a camouflage uniform that felt so eerily familiar because Clay thought, for a moment, that his own name was written on the name tag of the shirt. But the scene shuddered, and the name became unrecognizable.

“Hi, Goldilocks, this is Sonny,” said the man. “I know I’m pretty but stop starin’. It’s damn creepy.”

A loud piercing bang rang out in the space and the hammocks stopped swinging. The floor beneath Sonny’s hammock became soaked with blood. Clay stared at it. It stared back. The red crept toward him. Clay looked away, looked up, and found himself staring at a gray ceiling. Something rumbled in the distance. He turned. Sonny was swinging in his hammock, swaying gently, a hand clutching an ugly hat. Clay looked up, found blue skies, and then it suddenly wasn’t blue skies.

Water rushed into his lungs through his mouth, his nose. He choked, coughed, scrabbled for air. Something dragged him down. Something heavy on his back dragged him down. Something heavy he clutched in his gloved hands dragged him down. His eyes stung with water. Light shimmered above—once, twice, a flash of light, a final flash. Then, deafening darkness. Cold, quiet black, a soft, slow descend. Softly. His breath stopped at the dark sights that greeted him and he wasn’t able to regain his breath again because the water was begging him not to as it pushed him upward. Upward. He was ascending. Clay’s eyes startled open and the water drowned out his vision. Then, faster. Quicker. Hands plunged through the water, ripped past it, and grabbed him. Hands removed the weight on his back. Hands grabbed his hands. Hands dragged him upward until his face broke through the surface. The water left as quickly as they’d rushed in.

His eyes snapped open.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay leaves and he comes back but he doesn't come back.

The boss they took him to was a man who introduced himself as Jason Pairrot. Parrot with an ‘i’ but pronounced all the same as the squawking bird. However, all that remained stuck to Clay was the name Jason. In his memory, or whatever he could remember of it, the Jason he must’ve known didn’t seem to be the Jason that was standing in front of him, peering down through thick eyebrows. The man insisted that Clay called him Mr. Pairrot, even though Clay had yet to say a word. The piece of towel that gagged his mouth was uncomfortable, but the man didn’t seem to be aware of it or didn’t really mind. The black bag over his head had been removed before Clay had come to and he found himself in a surprisingly civilized room, complete with sofas, a desk, some bookshelves, and a low coffee table that stood between him and Mr. Pairrot. Mr. Pairrot owned a newspaper company named Scott Agency and the name rang a faint bell that was quickly silenced when Clay tried to locate it in his muddy mind.

“So, you’re Clay Spenser.”

“Suppose so,” Clay replied.

“You’re Ash Spenser’s kid.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Unfortunately, we got the wrong person but we must count our blessings.”

Mr. Pairrot was a stocky man confined by the necessity for formality. The thin black suit that encased the man’s body couldn’t close over the man’s stomach and the sleeves looked uncomfortably taut as they tried to contain his arms. Clay wished the man had worn a coat, or anything else other than the ill-fitting clothes the man had chosen to wear. A red tie that was supposed to be beneath the barely buttoned suit was hanging outside and the knot around the neck was so tight that it was deformed, yet it still left much room around the collar, so much so that the tie was more or less hanging from the man’s neck.

It fitted the man very well.

“Your father owes us some money but the problem is he left his job before he returned all of it.”

Clay merely made a noise of acknowledgment when nothing flashed in his memory. His instincts told him to leave, get out, run as fast as possible, but logic told him he wouldn’t make it three steps before he was dragged back. Mr. Pairrot didn’t look like he’d beat Clay, but the men who stood behind him looked like they were ready to do exactly that. Clay didn’t like the feeling of apprehension that crept up on him, and he knew his past self, whoever he had been, definitely liked it even less. Yet, Clay felt he shouldn’t be feeling this apprehension. That he should be braving it. That he was capable of dealing with it. He felt his heart pounding with a horrible mixture of fear, anger, and excitement and he felt that any moment soon he’d be leaping up and performing a roundhouse kick on the man—Clay didn’t think he was capable of doing that, but his instincts told him he could and he should and that there was nothing better else to do. Take out the enemy. Save himself. Clay felt like he was missing something—but it didn’t matter; take out the threat. Get out of the situation. Eliminate the threat. Get out. Eliminate—Mr. Pairrot was still talking—the threat. Clay’s wrists burned in the confinement. Blood rushed by his ears and for a moment, all he could hear were his loud breathing, his heartbeat, and the words that were still incessantly echoing and ringing in the depth of his mind, demanding and urging him to—

Clay closed his eyes—because the soldier screaming in his mind wasn’t who he was.

“I am a man of his words,” Mr. Pairrot was saying. “So I’ll let you go, but bring your father to be before tomorrow evening or I will hunt you down and kill you.”

“Ok,” Clay said. And the placidity surprised him but when the surprise ebbed away, Clay wasn’t surprised anymore because it made sense in a way that it didn’t make sense. Clay was confused. Clay didn’t want to think about it anymore. Clay just needed to remember that he was Clay Spenser and everything else would be fine.

They blindfolded him, gagged him, and threw him back in the back of the rocking truck. This time, it felt almost like a rocking boat coursing through some awful river. Clay’s hands were still bounded to his back and, lying on his side, his arm was hurting. So he turned until he was chest-first on the floor, head turned to the side like a fish out of water. Marball was sitting against the back window of the truck and the man nudged him with a foot.

“That’s less comfortable though.”

Clay had a hard time making words out with his cheek pressed against the floor. Harold beat him to the punch and said, “he ain’t got much elsewhere to move.”

The rocking of the truck going up and down weaved in and out of the two men’s budding argument and it soon lured Clay to sleep, despite having slept for most of the day now and awakened only to the oddest scenes. It felt as if the dreams were more real than whatever he was seeing now—at least in dreams, he didn’t feel like he was forgetting things. In dreams, he saw faces that he remembered and they faded away just as he woke. They left only the faintest feelings behind, leaving him wide-eyed, racking his brain to retrieve the fleeting dreams he’d lost.

Clay wished he was always asleep.

Clay wished the man in his dream, the man called Sonny, would come to find him. Clay wished that, when he woke up, the man named Ash Spenser would be there to remind him what he’d forgotten. He really wished that. He really wanted someone to remind him, to find him, to tell him that he was right where he belonged because Clay was so lost on this hell island whoever had cast him onto.

Part of him thought himself was the cause of this because the hammock in his dreams was always bleeding. Clay Spenser wanted it to stop bleeding but it was the only dream he had of the man named Sonny so Clay Spenser also didn’t want it to stop bleeding. But it stopped bleeding. Instead of the red, swaying hammock, Clay dreamed of bubbles. Small, swirling bubbles that floated into the sky from a single exhale from the man smiling at his daughter as he blew into the circle. One of them neared Clay and he reached out, trying to have it land on his cupped hands. It popped. Tiny droplets of water were flung onto his hands. Like a cruel joke, the transparent water turned redder and redder and larger until his hands were coated with a thick, sticky layer of blood that dripped down onto the green grass beneath his bare feet. The man with the bubbles looked at him, looked past him, and when Clay turned, both of their gazes settled on the man swinging gently in the hammock that was dripping red.

Something poked his side and Clay woke. The blindfold had been removed and Harold was peering down at him with narrowed eyes. “Good dream?”

Clay glanced at him stupidly. “Good dream.”

“Well, there you go. You’re home.”

And Clay turned his gaze to the house in front of him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay only wants two things.

The man who opened the door after Clay rang the doorbell was about his height and had sandy gray hair that, at one point, tipped from fashion and fell into unkempt. Wrinkles marred the man’s sly-looking face and Clay wondered if the man was born looking like that or if years of whatever had twisted his face into a permanent sneer. Clay had the urge to punch the man, but he also had the urge to sit down and crack open a cold beer. This was his home so he had every right to enter, close the door, and grab a beer—if there were beers. He thought there were; it was the only thing he was more than 50 percent sure of.

“Clay,” the man sounded surprised. It wasn’t a bad surprise or a good surprise, there was just surprise surprise that pitched his tone high like a question. But not a question. “Where did you go?”

“You’re Ash?” Clay asked absently as he brushed past the man and entered the house. He knew where the fridge was so there was no need to ask.

“Uh, yeah,” Ash replied, closing the door behind him. “Your head still jumbled up? What’s your name?”

“Clay Spenser,” Clay Spenser said. He plopped down on the sofa, cracked open the beer, and took a long swig to quench the thirst. “Hey, um, so, you’re my father, right?”

The man twisted his face into a mocking scoff. “ _Luke, I’m your father—_ thought we’d established that like thirty years ago.”

“I’m having a little trouble remembering,” Clay confessed. “Know my name, but everything else’s not registering much.”

“Oh.” Ash blinked. “Okay. Wow. New development. So you know your name, but you don’t know anything else.”

“Right.”

“You also know I’m your dad.”

“Right.” Clay made a face. “But questionable.”

“What an ass.” Ash huffed indignantly and Clay could almost, in that split second, imagine the man as his father. “Okay, so, what else do you remember?”

“A man named Sonny?” Clay shrugged. “Oh, right, I was told to give you a message from a Mr. Pairrot. Parrot with an ‘I’.”

Ash narrowed his eyes, the scowl making his wrinkles all the more prominent. “Fuck, you met that asshole?”

“He might’ve kidnapped me—but anyway, he said I should bring you to him or I’ll die.” Clay looked at the man. “He said you borrowed some money.”

“Don’t look at me like that. You don’t know what’s going on.”

“Look at you like what?”

“Even without your memory, you remember how to pull on that shitty judgmental scowl.” Ash pointed a finger accusingly at him. “True, I owe him a big sum but that was _years_ ago. Might’ve gambled a shitload away before I found my footing.”

“He made it sound very recent actually.”

Ash frowned at him. “I might’ve run into some trouble with my other businesses. Needed some small financial aid.”

Clay shrugged. “It’s not my business. You should deal with it.”

“Listen, kid, this ain’t a ‘snap and you’re done’ business. Where the fuck do I get the money from to pay him back? He wants the money before I have them.”

“So you’re just gonna run away?”

“I’m still here, am I not? I’m coming up with a plan.” Ash ripped the fridge open, grabbed his own beer, and sat down on the sofa adjacent to Clay’s.

“Why don’t you just sell your businesses?” Clay asked.

“Sell my businesses?” Ash looked at him incredulously.

“If you aren’t making good money, sell it. Be done with it.”

“Aren’t you the wise guy?” Ash sneered. “My businesses are the pinnacles of my reputation. They have my name on it. How can I just sell them?”

“Okay then.”

Ash watched him for a few more seconds looking irritated. “Why don’t you go to base and find your SEALs buddy if you aren’t gonna offer some good suggestions?”

“SEALs?”

“Fuck, you don’t even remember that?” Ash stood up. “Clay Spenser, Tier-One Operator. Fucking Special Warfare Operator First Class. Who do you think you are? What, you just woke up and you thought you’re some civilian?”

“Yeah.” Clay shrugged. Because the boastful titles spitting out of the man’s mouth didn’t stick as the name Clay Spenser did. Perhaps they did feel familiar, but the brief moment of familiarity was overcome by the feeling of cold indifference creeping onto him.

Ash Spenser ended up driving Clay to the base. Clay thought he should go to the hospital, but Ash told him that it’d just be another hundred bucks for nothing they didn’t know already. Clay didn’t know anything about it, but Ash sounded like he did so Clay digressed. The people entering and leaving the guarded facility carried duffel bags. There was one in the backseat so Clay reached over and took it. But before he could leave the car, Ash told him to wait for him to make a quick phone call because he didn’t want Clay to be “flagged down and taken out and shot ‘cuz you’re acting like you don’t belong here.” Clay looked to the man, didn’t say a word, and nodded.

Clay Spenser didn’t think he belonged here.

“Hey,” Ash said loudly as the call connected. “I found him. We’re outside the base so you better come get him because I’m not going inside.”

Clay didn’t like the way the man phrased it. Did Clay know the man on the other end of the call? Was it Sonny? Or the man with the bubbles? He shivered, his hands growing cold despite himself and he could feel the sweat coating his palm refusing him a steady grip on the handle on the car door.

“He can’t enter on his own. No, he’s not hurt, he has a fucking massive concussion so he isn’t going anywhere on his own.” Ash was scowling again. “We’re right outside, you can’t miss us. I don’t have all day.”

The men who came to pick him up came in a group that was small enough that it wasn’t overwhelming, but big enough that Clay knew he couldn’t win against them. He could maybe take out the man with the dog but he had the feeling that the dog would rip him to pieces if he were so much as to make one wrong move. He hopped out of the car, landed on his two feet, and put his hands into his pockets to brace himself—but when the men closed in, neared, Clay found that it wasn’t the men he was bracing for but rather the sudden paroxysm of memories that flashed in front of his eyes like a sun starved for attention.

The heat and painful light ripped the air out of him. Clay stumbled back, shoes scraping the harsh rocks, and footsteps rushed up before hands grabbed him. Steadied him. And Clay found himself looking into—Clay blinked. Hayes.

“You alright?” asked Hayes, a frown on his face. His hand gripped Clay’s arm tightly and didn’t let go until Clay blinked again and nodded semi-consciously.

The memories of Clay Spenser, Tier-One Operator and Special Warfare Operator First Class, were so vivid that Clay was petrified—because suddenly he was Clay Spenser again. Suddenly he had meaning and responsibilities and everything he was searching for came to an abrupt, quiet stop like bubbles bursting in front of the bright blue backdrop.

“Clay?” Sonny asked and his gruff voice brought stings to Clay’s eyes. “Hey, Goldilocks, what happened? Where did you go?”

“Fucking nowhere.” Clay shrugged and it took all he had to manage that shrug. “Why?”

“Well,” Hayes said carefully. “Sonny asked to meet up this morning. You never showed up and you never answered any of our calls. Where did you go?”

“I went out. My phone must’ve died.”

Clay found that when he was with Bravo, he could remember everything: Sonny’s cap, Hayes’s scowl, Ray’s clap on his shoulder, Brock’s soft voice as he talked to Cerberus, and Trent’s small scowl as he arranged his pack. But it wasn’t everything. It was _almost_ everything. Sometimes, he found himself staring at the mirror in the bathroom and the face would stare back at him inquisitively, asking him the same question he was asking himself. Sometimes a member of another team would walk in and say “Hey, Spenser,” and suddenly he was Clay Spenser again. And Clay Spenser would walk out, head to his cage, swing softly in the hammock, and stare at the black wires of the ceiling. He could sense his team’s presence as they traveled outside his cage. Clay knew to twist his head and give them a small smile when they neared because otherwise, they would find problems. Clay didn’t want to be off the team. Clay didn’t want to forget them. Clay didn’t want Hayes to be angry. Clay didn’t want Sonny to not be there. Clay wanted a lot of things and, in retrospection, Clay wanted only two things.

During missions, Hayes wanted only two things as well: the safety of his men and the success of the mission. Clay found that these two goals imprinted in him had become part of his instincts. On the field, everything left him beside the raw survival instincts screaming at him to get away from danger, the drills ingrained in him by the military, the hyper-awareness of his team’s whereabouts, and Hayes’s instruction on the safety of his men and the success of the mission. Clay could shoot, nearly get shot, scaled up a building, or nearly fall down a wall and still remember to look out for his teammates and to complete the mission at all cost. Hayes told him he didn’t want anybody to complete the mission at the cost of their life—Clay didn’t want that either, but sometimes, on the field, everything left him. His memories. Hayes’s words. Trent’s warnings. All drifted away when the dust kicked up by the gunfire began suffocating them.

Clay knew what to do most of the time. He could calculate his best path and he would do it. They said he was good at these split-second calculations but he wasn’t all that good at not being the ignorant hero. They said his propensity to rush into danger with nothing more than “I have an idea” was putting the team in danger. Clay agreed. Clay absolutely agreed but Clay didn’t know how to fix it.

Jason Hayes seemed to think it would be fixed by yelling at Clay. “What the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

“You needed a quick distraction,” Clay said, knowing fully that it wasn’t what Hayes was asking for.

“Ever heard of grenades, Pretty Boy?” Sonny’s face mirrors Hayes’s taut frustration. “Boom. Distraction. Ain’t no need for you to haul your ass out there to be shot at.”

Ray, who had just gotten off a phone call, pocketed his phone and turned to Clay. “Blackburn would like to talk to you tomorrow.”

“Great,” Clay muttered miserably. He absently picked at the needle in his skin and Trent who was leaning against the wall of the hospital room told him to not do it.

“This attitude of your is what will get one of us killed next time,” Hayes said. “If you don’t change it, you aren’t cut out to be one of us.” He then left, followed immediately by Ray, then Brock, then Sonny, then Trent. The nurses left too after checking his chart and noted that he was as fine as he possibly could be after getting nicked by the bullet.

Clay wanted them to come back—it scared him to realize that he needed to want that.

Ash picked him up that night, gave him his pill and water, and wrote him a little note on the nightstand that said: “My name is Clay Spenser and if I don’t remember anything, I’ll fucking call my father before I leave and do anything stupid.”

Before he slept, Clay crossed out ‘my father’ and replaced it with Ash Spenser. Then he slept, dreamed of a bloody hammock and the man with bubbles, and woke in the middle of the night with the sudden thoughts of Mr. Pairrot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support so far! I promise there is an ending (and a meaning) to this story and it won't just go on with Clay simply being tossed back and forth haha. I hope that as Clay gets less confused with his environment, it will also become clearer the direction this is going in.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay gets taken.

The doctor at the hospital, upon hearing that Clay’s problem had become problems, handed him to a therapist. Clay didn’t want to go. Ash didn’t want him to go. Clay went anyway and found himself invited warmly to a gray sofa. Clay wasn’t all that good at keeping a conversation going and he was glad that it wasn’t his job to do so in this quiet, secluded room. The therapist asked him a lot of questions and he answered them as much as possible—which wasn’t much, judging by the therapist’s weary smiles at the end of his brief responses.

“So, you sometimes forget your names when you’re with your friends but you forget them when you’re by yourself.” The therapist leaned back and Clay almost thought the man was going to stroke his lack of a beard and mutter something along the line of ‘interesting’. The man didn’t. “Do you know why?”

Clay shrugged. “Do you?”

“I’m not sure but I hope we can find out,” the therapist replied. “Have you spoken to your friends about this?”

“No, it’s not…” Clay frowned. “It’s not good to let them know.”

“You think they will reject you?”

Clay was quick to object. “It’s not rejection. There’s nothing _good_ they can do.”

The therapist sat back, visible disapproval and concern marring his face. “This might not be entirely true but what I get from you is this reluctance to reach out for help. And sometimes, we all need a little help. You shouldn’t be ashamed.”

“I know.”

“When we meet next time, I’d like to know how asking for help went.”

Clay didn’t think there would be a next time but he nodded anyway and left. Ash was waiting for him in one of those rigid metal chairs. He asked if Clay had learned anything new and Clay told him no, not really. But Clay said it softly so the therapist wouldn’t hear. But the therapist wouldn’t hear anyway, not when he was a whole floor above. Ash drove him to the base and reminded him to not stick out like a sore thumb and call if shit hits the fan. Clay snorted and the brief amusement surprised both of them. Classical music was on. It drifted lazily throughout the car from the speakers and the wind reached in from the half-down window on Clay’s side and stole the wordless melodies. The rushing breeze ruffled Clay’s hair and forced his eyes into slits until he decided to close them altogether.

“Did you speak to Mr. Pairrot?” Clay asked when he felt Ash’s eyes on him. “He said he was going to hunt me down if I don’t bring you to him by this evening.”

That forced Ash to look away pointedly. “Going to him without money will be the shittiest move I’d ever wake.”

“So you’re not going? What if he hunts me down?” Clay inquired dryly.

“Then you better not go wandering outside like you wantto be hunted down.”

Clay acknowledged the valid point with a nod of his head. “But why’d he be hunting me down when it’s you he wants?”

“Don’t know.”

But they both knew and the feeling was warm. If Clay had to stay awake for the rest of his life, he’d like to spend more of it with his father. Sometimes, Ash wasn’t a man of his words and neither was Clay They both knew this relationship they were rebuilding wouldn’t make their past better nor would it promise a good future, but somehow, piece by piece, it was making the present better. Clay was more than okay with that. They didn’t need to promise anything because Ash knew he might not be able to keep it and Clay knew he might not be there to keep it.

But Mr. Pairrot _was_ a man of his words. When Clay left base later that day with Hayes’s disapproval still boring holes in his back, he was whisked away two steps outside by a black bag over his head. They threw him into the van head first and his shoulder collided straight on with rough, plated floor. His duffel bag fell somewhere during the struggle but Clay didn’t know where. His phone was in there. He hoped someone would return it to him later because he didn’t want to get a new phone. It wasn't just a phone. It felt personal. A lot of things felt personal lately. That was the last thing he worried about before someone knocked him out with a cloth over his nose and mouth. Clay inhaled it without a fight because he didn’t want to be hit over the head again.

Clay dreamed he was in the ocean. Or perhaps, it wasn’t the ocean but it was calm, blue, and warm and Clay was somewhere in the middle of it, floating, staring up at the rays of light shimmering through the surface of the water as he slowly drifted away from it. He opened his mouth. Bubbles of air softly left him, lingering inquisitively before they did. Clay felt like he was telling them to go but his mouth wasn’t moving, his hands weren’t moving, nothing was moving but the invisible currents as they accepted him. Slowly sinking. Falling. Drifting. Light gracefully skimmed across his face and touched his exposed skin. At first, it was gentle, then it became like fire, scorching across his skin, burning his opened eyes, and twisting his lungs until the last of the air escaped in a gasp. Cold water rushed in but it fell like icicles upon his skin, digging into the soaked fingers and scalp painfully.

Clay woke drenched, gasping for air. The man with the bucket still dripping water took a step back, his duty done. In front of Clay sat a lamp turned brightly his way, searing his eyes anywhere he turned. He wanted to turn his back toward it, but the rope bounded him and the wooden chair tightly together. When he moved, the rope cut into his skin like a blade.

“Good evening, Clay,” said Mr. Pairrot. “Did you have a nice dream?”

“No.” Clay coughed up the water and shivered.

“Where’s your father?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said you’d bring him to me.”

“I did.” Clay glanced at the man. “He said he doesn’t have the money so he’s not coming.”

“Did you tell him you’ll be killed?”

“No,” Clay answered.

“Why not?”

“I didn’t think I’d be killed.”

Mr. Pairrot straightened disapprovingly. “I told you I’m a man of my words, didn’t I? I said I’ll hunt you down so I did. A pity, really. Now I have to personally invite your father over for a talk.”

Clay’s head dropped to his chest, eyes trying to avert the light. The brief moment of escape left visions of burnt light in his eyes. He tried to blink them away, almost wishing for the cold water to drench him again to take away the burning pain throbbing behind his tightly shut eyelids. Hands grabbed his chin roughly and tilted his head up until he was facing the light again.

“No no, Clay,” Mr. Pairrot said. "The light will help warm you up while we wait for your father."


End file.
